


Cold as Snow

by TheQuirkyOne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Harry Potter, Child Tom Riddle, Family Angst, Family Feels, Harry Potter Raises Tom Riddle, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Protective Harry Potter, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-02-07 10:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21456508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheQuirkyOne/pseuds/TheQuirkyOne
Summary: Cynical and bitter, young Tom is convinced he'll never be adopted. That is until a cloaked figure with desolate green eyes enters the doors to Wool's Orphanage.
Comments: 33
Kudos: 394
Collections: Aussie Pandas Harry Potter Incomplete Fics Collection





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, just a little something that I will most likely be continuing. Feedback is worshipped, many thanks!  
(I do not own any characters from Harry Potter)

It was a cold morning in mid-December. 

A blinding white had blanketed the entirety of Great Britain for many weeks and the Londoners in particular despised the frozen landscape with an unreasonable animosity. Unreasonable, because the whispers of a likely war across mainland Europe garnered mere tuts in comparison to the scornful distaste towards the harmless yet brisk weather. Apparently, there would never be anything worse than a harsh winter to disrupt their monotonous daily lives, a sentiment seemingly shared by all the adults.

However, there was one young boy, dressed in nothing more than a short sleeved shirt, a worn slipover and cotton trousers, sitting on the doorstep of a rundown orphanage who stared at the white scenery with wonder. 

His wonder was not for the people trudging through the snow turned sludge, or the cars hurtling past on skidding tyres. It was for the delicate flakes of snow drifting gently from the sky. His steel blue eyes sparkled with a simplistic joy only found in children as his gaze flickered from one to another with an endearing amount of fascination.  
He was a beautiful child, wavy locks of dark hair framed a cherubic rosy cheeked face. The occasional snowflake would drift into the small wooden shelter above the steps to brush his pale skin and cling to his dark lashes. He’d occasionally hold out a cherry red hand and beckon one of the larger frozen crystals away from its brethren to hover before his eager eyes as if by magic.

A man stood across the street from the orphanage watching the boy, his features masked by the bustling crowd and constant traffic. The cloaked figure stood rigidly, grasping a stick in a shaking white-knuckled grip. Slowly, he lifted the stick to point at the child outside Wool’s Orphanage with a determined set of his shoulders. The action was paused however when he saw other children appear from behind the building and whisper to each other in delight as they found the boy on the wooden steps.  
The child, too absorbed in the world around him, was unaware of the approaching danger and shouted in surprise when he was pushed from the top step to land face first in the freezing snow, jolting his elbow painfully on the wet concrete. The other boys laughed and taunted the shivering child who lay in the snow whimpering quietly and clutching his elbow as if he were trying to wish away the pain.

Green eyes stared in disbelief at the children, the semi outstretched arm faltered and dropped as the boys made a game of spitting on the younger boy. A slow, simmering anger prickled beneath his skin as he continued to watch the young teenagers torment the dark-haired child. A red mist seemed to focus his sight into a tunnel vision because in his mind’s eye he only saw a frail boy, much like the one in the snow, beaten and bruised by a family that was supposed to love him.

Breathing harshly, the figure instead levelled the shaking stick at the bullies. Overwhelmed by righteous anger, he couldn’t stop the foreign words from tumbling past his lips. A second later, brief yelps on pain replaced their cruel words. Unsure, they stood there, wearily eyeing the boy covered in snow and saliva who only stared back with a fury colder than ice. A few more inaudible phrases and the older boys where clambering over each other to make it to the front door in an attempt to outrun the painful stings, hurling insults after them until they’d disappeared behind the main entrance.

Feeling numb, the boy remained motionless for many moments before slowly uncurling from his defensive position to spread himself across the thin snow. He suddenly felt the absurd temptation to make a snow angel, but that was an activity for children and he’d long outgrown that protected mindset. Small hands flexed and gripped the frozen water, relishing the icy burn as he stubbornly ignored the frustrated tears trickling from the corner of his eyes. Snowflakes continued to fall on the silently crying child. 

Across the street the robed man slumped against a building. Staring dazedly into 1930’s London that was both familiar and strange, he contemplated all that he knew.


	2. A New Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom gets adopted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, hope you enjoy the new chapter, on schedule too! As always, all feedback is worshipped.

Snowflakes splattered themselves against the smudged glass that Tom gloomily gazed out of, attempting to ignore the chill of the melted snow on his clothes and his empty stomach. He had been denied dinner, again, this time it wasn’t even his fault. He’d been thinking up forms of revenge while the older kids continued to mock him when the older bullies suddenly sped away and went running to the caretakers about having a demon companion. Word got to the over religious Miss Cole and to bed he went. His room was locked and bolted and would only be opened come the following morning when school began once more, he’d learned this from experience. 

Yet Tom didn’t hate his solitary confinement, in actuality the four walls were more of a comfort to him than any material possession, person or sustenance could ever be. He wasn’t allowed out often, so Tom entertained himself by reading stolen books from the older children and observing the passing adults on the street who looked like nothing more than insects from his tiny window. Either way, Tom took pleasure from his own company, unlike other young children who would cry for attention. At least Miss Cole didn’t force him to attend church anymore. A minute shudder shook his bony shoulders, not because of his damp clothes, but in remembrance. They were the evil ones, not him.

A dark splotch moving quickly across the white scenery stole his attention. It was a person in a heavy looking cloak, Tom attempted to peer at the mystery man’s face but only saw distorted features. Unsettled, he drew back from the window, pensively tapping his fingers against the glass. It must have been the man’s frantic walking pace. A flash of colour drew his eyes back to the window and goosebumps broke out across his skin. 

The figure had stopped dead and all Tom could see was a flash of green. The chilling moment passed as soon as it started, the hood was pulled further down the man's face as he continued his brisk pace towards the orphanage doors. Tom continued to stare at the white snow where the man had stood for a long moment, an uneasy feeling creeping along his skin when realising that he couldn’t discern any emotion from the man in the remembered interaction which made the usually astute child frown in mild annoyance.

Tom huffed as he fell back onto his bed, jolting his bruised elbow in the process. A sharp hiss escaped through gritted teeth. Seething at his own stupidity, he slowly laid back on the bed, clutching his bare elbow in a nail digging grip. The groan of the metal frame seemed to mimic his perturbed mood. What could a man like that be doing at an orphanage? Tom doubted he was a beggar, but he didn't dress like the type of person who would be able to provide for a child. 

Suddenly, heavy footsteps could be heard on the stairs making Tom spring to a standing position. Brushing down his clothing, he nervously waited for the footfalls to undoubtedly cease at his door, there would be no other reason for anyone to take a trip to the 2nd floor when the other children were all elsewhere. The sharp sound of the lock being unlatched brought a small sense of hope to the dark haired child, hope that he wouldn’t go hungry this time. The feeling was snuffed out by the cold gaze and intimidating demeanour of Miss Cole.

“Come on boy, someone’s here to adopt and he insisted on all the children being present, even the nasty evil ones like you.”

Tom glowered, feeling a rolling sea of hate as Miss Cole sniffed disdainfully and turned to walk back the way she came, not bothering to wait for Tom. If he didn’t follow, the better in her mind. Bitterly, he swallowed scathing words and obediently followed, keeping his gaze on the floor, for he knew it was less likely he’d be reprimanded.  
After all, he didn’t want to miss the possibility of being adopted, even if it might be by that strange man. A hesitant, giddy feeling began to unfold in his chest. Usually he was kept in his room when parents came by, like a dirty secret Tom thought resentfully, so it was surprising that Miss Cole had a change of heart concerning the matter, especially considering he’d been ‘bad’ earlier.

When they reached the bottom floor Tom carefully glanced around the room, the children were lined up in orderly disarray, excited babbling falling from their mouths as they shared in the excitement of potentially finding a home. Miss Cole graced one last sour look at the evil boy by her side, then strode into her office where the gentlemen was waiting. Why on earth did she bring Tom down in the first place?

Left abandoned, Tom attempted to blend into the faded wooden walls near the stairs rather than join the other children. He didn’t want any altercations that could ruin his potential adoption. So, for once, Tom stayed silent with his head down. Usually he’d be the last person to avert his eyes from those he saw as beneath him but he had a heavy feeling that this would be his last opportunity to be taken to a home.

Alas, the one time he kept to himself, trouble seemed to find him. Tom exhaled in irritation as he caught sight of those who enjoyed to torment him make their way over. The older children never learned, he stole from them all the time in an attempt to deter them yet it just seemed to incense them more. He never acted first, everything he did or took was out of simple retaliation. He couldn’t do much considering he was weaker, being half the age as the just turned teenagers, so he had to keep it long distance. So for that reason they were often in trouble, courtesy of Tom, and they still found time to push him around. 

“Hey Tommy, what are doing down here, adoption is for normal children." Donald sneered as he crowded Tom against the wall. Tom simply stared back with a bored expression, used to the taunting. He was the only one that he bothered to learn the name of, considering he was the worst of the group of bullies.

"Hey freak aren't you going to say something!" Spat another, the one with the large front teeth, Tom recognised dully. He kind of zoned out as they got more rowdy with his continued silence, his mind wandered to the strange man. That is until he was grabbed roughly by the elbow, white hot pain shot up his arm and he couldn’t hold in the yelp. The bullies grinned wickedly in unison.

“Oh? What’s wrong Tommy? Did I hurt you?” Donald asked sweetly as he squeezed the bruised flesh mercilessly. Tom felt winded from the pain, his composure cracked and his eyes betrayed his fear. All he wanted was to get away. The air between the pair suddenly dropped and Donalds fingers began to turn blue. Shocked by the cold he tried to pull away, bringing Tom more affliction, but his hand had frozen to the flesh he was clutching. Tom was breathing quickly, his mind was fuzzy from the pain and he was panicking, he didn’t want to be touched, he didn’t want-

A weight fell onto his shoulder as he heard a male voice near his ear.

“Hey, calm down, it’s okay, it’s alright, you’re safe, just breath.” The words were a long and steady murmur bringing with them a sense of calm, his primal panic began to fade with every reassurance. His vision was no longer unfocused but all he could make out was darkness, he then realised he was face to face with a cloak. Looking upwards he saw eyes as green as the grassy meadows in summertime which he recognised from his brief glimpse from the window, the colour was muted however by obnoxious round glasses. Adorning his features was a weary but gentle smile which Tom didn’t know how to process. He simply stared, transfixed.

“What’s going on here!” Miss Cole bellowed across the room, stomping after the gentleman who had dashed from her office with little warning. The children froze their noisy antics, only just noticing the cloaked male among them. Seeing the man crouched down next to the little devil, she thought she’d do a service of giving him a warning. Before she could utter a word however, Donald burst into tears, as did the other boys, running to hide behind the sour woman.

Tom broke eye contact with the man, who was still hovering close by, once the wailing began. Tom couldn’t stop the rolling of his eyes at their fake tears and poor attempt at manipulating the matron. Lucky for them Miss Cole always blamed him, because their attempts would have been useless considering a potato had more maternal instinct. Glancing back at the mysterious male, he realised from the furrowed brows that the same couldn’t be said for the man in front of him.

“They’re faking you know.” He muttered, wanting the man to know he wasn’t some mean bully, he wasn’t like them. Even if he had somehow hurt them this time, it was their own fault. Understanding flashed across his face, and a small smile was sent his way. Relieved, he knew, for the sake of the other kids but Tom still struggled to comprehend such a gentle expression being aimed his way, no one had really looked at him like that before. Strangers perhaps, but the children didn’t bother with the freak and neither did the adults. They were too distant to care, yet he was not. He was a strange man, but not in a bad way. Tom hesitantly lifted his lips to smile back.

“Stay away from that one Sir, there are other children much more deserving of a good home. That one has bad blood.” Miss Cole spat with contempt as the pre teens laughed silently behind her. Said child shrunk under her glare, he felt so unfairly belittled. His deep-seated hate for the horrid matron made itself known through gritted teeth and a dark stare unsettling to see on a child. The man wouldn’t consider him now, he’d be just like all the other parents, believing an adult over a child.  
Taking in the dark haired child’s tense shoulders and how truly wrong the situation was, righteous anger once again tickled through the cloaked man’s blood, reminiscent of how he ended up in the orphanage, which he was never supposed to enter, in the first place. He stood up with an indistinct agility, his messy black hair subtly bouncing in his journey, and turned stiffly towards the hefty woman and the grinning teens.

“Be that as it may, I think I’ll be adopting this young man please mam.” He said with a charming smile that was a little too sharp. The bully’s mouths dropped as did Tom’s. Not one to be intimidated Miss Cole went to give him a piece of her mind but the glint in his eyes hardened. Uncertain how to respond to the mildly threatening look, Miss Cole gave into his wishes, at least she wouldn’t have to deal with the hellspawn now. Sniffing scornfully, she turned and strode with fake confidence towards her office.

“Go pack your things and wait for me near the door, okay?” He spoke quietly. Tom grabbed him by the sleeve before he could turn away, trying to get his words together when he was reeling from what was currently happening and trying not to get swept away with it out of the fear of being disappointed.

“But, but it can take up to weeks for things to be—" The man just smiled that gentle smile and lightly patted his shoulder, subsequently aborting the rest of his sentence due to his surprise at the physical contact, before following the matron into the office to work his magic.

Tom was left momentarily speechless. The soft click of the office door caused a bewildered smile to light up is childish face. He proceeded to rush up the stairs to do as told, ignoring the other upset and angry children. As if he cared, he was elated. Throwing open the door to his lifelong prison, he shoved his many stolen possessions, having barely anything that was actually his, onto his bed and wrapped the bedsheet around them. Done in minutes, Tom didn’t even pause to throw on a warmer layer of clothing or bid goodbye to the room he’d spent his miserable childhood in and bounded down the stairs, his bundle of things thumping in a syncopated rhythm with his footsteps. 

Hitting the bottom step, Tom saw the man waiting for him against the main entrance. Not giving a second thought as to how the man was done so quickly, he attempted to stifle his eagerness as he walked quickly to stand beside him. When green eyes met his, he smiled shyly, it was bright enough that the male’s eyes widened minutely in surprise. This child looked completely different from the one sullen and bitter he’d come to know through memories. He couldn’t help but return his smile, his heart warmed with a hope for the future and for Tom Riddle.

“Ready to go to your new home?” He asked indulgently as he picked up Tom’s things. He nodded enthusiastically in response but was suddenly struck with a thought that left him uncertain to what their dynamic would be.

“Mister, what should I call you?” The question was asked tentatively and the utterance made the man pause.

“How about just Harry for now.” Harry smiled tightly down at the boy who was gazing pensively at the door frame. His heart felt heavy because he knew that Tom would no doubt begin to consider him as a potential paternal figure but he wasn't ready for that, If he ever would be. Still, Harry would try. He'd give him the childhood that neither of them had.

“Come on Tom.” Harry urged, and they both stepped passed the threshold into what Harry hoped would be a future brighter than their dark pasts.


	3. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom finds out he's a wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I apologise for the late update, nevertheless I hope you all enjoy it! As always, feedback is very much worshipped.

Harry had remained beside the building he’d unceremoniously dumped himself against for a long time, heedless of the worsening snow. The sky slowly turned amber as he attempted to centre himself and quiet the noise in his head, heavy breaths turned to wisps of fog as soon as they left his chapped lips. He'd been shaken by his own behaviour. He was unable to believe that after giving up everything to try and prevent the magical world from falling into ruin, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t complete his self-made mission and Harry despised himself for it. After all the people he’d lost and lives he’d had to end, he’d thought himself hardened to the reality of what he had to do. It seems he’d overestimated himself for when he’d seen that boy shoved hard into the biting snow by the other children, he just couldn’t do it. It had all been so frighteningly familiar to his own past, one which he’d long since buried or so he assumed.

A tingle travelled up his right forearm and Harry rolled his wand fondly between his frigid fingers in response, the gentle hum anchored him and his spiralling thoughts. The self-hate slowly evaporated until all that remained was sombre resignation. He tucked his wand away, sighing heavily as he did so. Harry didn’t want to empathise with the most evil wizard of their time but he couldn’t picture the child he’d witnessed being bullied as the dark lord he’d been running from all his life. He was unsure how to continue though, he couldn’t just leave him be but it was the question of whether he meddle from afar, pulling the strings to suit him (similar to Dumbledore Harry thought with distaste) or take a more active approach. Maybe all Tom needed was a bit of guidance to change what had become of the future. He pondered that particular thought with furrowed brows, would a difference have been made if the jaded boy had known love early in life and before Hogwarts?

What occurred next were his feet apparently having made an unconscious decision, for they were crossing the street before Harry could blink. He paused briefly, halfway across the snowy path to the orphanage when his mind had caught up to his body, second-guessing his choice powered by intuition. That was until he caught a small face peeking through a window on the second floor and their eyes met. He swallowed thickly. He couldn’t kill a child, even if he grew up to be the biggest twat in history, so this was the least he could do. Resolve setting his shoulders firmly in place and heedless of being a single guardian in a foreign time with no job to speak of and only enough funds to support himself for a year, he broke their shared gaze and marched swiftly to the front door.

\---

Walking down the snow dusted path from the orphanage with hands full of possessions which Harry had no doubt most were stolen (he’d need to have a talk about morals) and his dark haired responsibility pensively trailing behind him, he realised perhaps a bit too late how bad of an idea it was to adopt Tom Riddle.

He’d been unknowingly enchanted by the idea of raising Tom, providing him a stable home and attempting to give him some sort of familial love. Yet he had no parenting knowledge to speak of other than occasionally having Teddy over for a night or two a week in the years following, what he thought to be at the time, the final battle. He had nothing at the muggle house he’d recently bought to insinuate that he’d been there for more than a week and Tom was unfortunately sharp, he’d ask questions which Harry knew he’d struggle to answer when omitting the truth. Then he had to go about discussing magic which was a risky topic considering he didn’t know what Tom was aware of and he’d undoubtedly want to know everything he could which would be worrisome in itself.  
Harry had no clue what to do about his education, he could homeschool him but that would leave him unsupervised when Harry eventually got a job of some sort and he was apprehensive about trusting the troubled child just yet. How was he even supposed to treat him? Admittedly he’d mostly been on autopilot when walking into the orphanage as well as during his meeting with the dour matron. That was until he felt a spike of accidental magic from the other room and Harry, expecting the worst, rushed through the door like a clap of thunder as his anxiety flared brightly. Instead, he saw Tom hyperventilating and iced to a child he recognised as the main tormentor from earlier. Intervening quickly, he wordlessly thawed the ice with a discreet wave of his hand and put himself between the children, facing Tom he crouched to his height and unsure of what else to do he placed a hand on a malnourished shoulder and muttered assurances like he did when Teddy had been particularly fussy. The next few minutes passed in a blur of remarks ranging from threatening to reassuring and a nasty confundus to the matron until they were out the door.

Now having the opportunity to breathe the heavy air of the dark London streets Harry felt like vapourising to join the smog because he’d need to explain magic first and foremost considering that was his main mode of transport which he’d somehow forgotten to consider. He rubbed his face discreetly in exasperation at his own foolish actions, you would have thought he’d learned by now not to rush into things. Gazing briefly at the cobbled stones beneath him that were dusted with a white highlighted by the dim street lamps, he realised he was simply putting off the inevitable. He flicked a look to Tom who was dragging his feet more than he’d like. Eyeing the next alley on the, surprisingly still busy, main road he placed his free hand on Tom’s shoulder, not wanting to lose him to the shadows that crept along the grimy city surfaces. He didn’t expect the child to flinch beneath his touch, unfortunately in a way which Harry recognised for he did it himself for many years. He resisted the urge to glance at him. Weaving through a few more bodies he sharply turned them into the alley, the soft crunch of his worn boots left imprints in the untouched snow. Once they were deep into the alley and there were no others to be seen he crouched low, placing the bundle of possessions beside them and gently pulled Tom by the elbow to face him in the little light there was but a wince startled past gritted teeth. Harry snapped back his hand, accidentally falling into an old habit.

“Sorry.” The word escaped on a breath, then a misplaced and wry smile cracked his lips. What a pair they made, it seemed physical touch was going to be a challenge between them. Surprisingly, the dark haired child didn’t complain but he did slide his eyes to the dampening sheet protecting his belongings, then the ground and rubbed his sore arm uneasily, no doubt due to their current location. Of course he’d be anxious after being dragged down a dark alley at night by someone who was still a stranger Harry scolded himself. Wanting to end things quickly he took a deep breath, steeling himself for his next words.

“Do you believe in magic?” The reaction was instantaneous and a spark of mild amusement tinted Harry’s solemn gaze. Bewildered, wide eyes zipped up to meet his own. His face ran through emotions like a soap opera, paying special attention to disbelief, until he settled on baffled distrust. Harry hesitantly explained himself.

“I’m sure things have happened to you that seemed strange, times where you wanted something to happen and it just did. Like today—well, that's not the best example. What I’m trying to say is that, what you have, what that was, is magic.” After fumbling out the worst clarification possible, he dragged his bespectacled gaze across the young boy as he waited for the click to occur when every detail falls into place and it all starts to make sense. The raised eyebrows and blank look he was receiving didn’t fill him with much hope. Harry’s shoulders fell with an exhale but he tried again.

“You’re a wizard Tom, like me.” Against his better judgement, he pulled out his dear holly wand from beneath his cloak, almost missing Tom’s subtle flinch as he did so.

“Lumos” He whispered with a flick and the ally lit up with a warm glow. The light bounced off the white snow and onto the high walls, illuminating their red tinged faces and foggy breaths. Awe slowly morphed Tom’s guarded expression as he took in the shining wand. Seemingly entranced, he let his arm go, lifting it with extended fingers towards the light like a moth to a flame. Harry pulled it back from the reaching hand but didn’t end the spell, the reaction was too endearing, is this what he’d looked like when he first saw magic? The thought brought a tender smile to his lips. Tom however was unaware of anything but the wand. He wanted it. He stretched further but Harry just brought it out of his reach once more; a subtle amusement danced across his features which vanished like ice in a desert when dark colourings were glimpsed beneath a short sleeved shirt and a pullover.

With a speed honed from years of danger he grabbed the icy outstretched arm and pulled it upwards, eyes laden with concern took in the mottled bruise that covered most of his bony elbow. A simmering anger laced his brows together. Tom was wrenched out of his enraptured state and a startled fear settled deep within his stomach as the man, who he now knew to be a wizard, firmly held his wrist. Green eyes stared his arm into submission.

“Did those children do this to you?” Tom could only nod at the intimidating tone, fear weighing his tongue too much to speak. Taking in the child’s stiff figure Harry exhaled heavily through his nose, aiming to expel the rage that had tensed his muscles into a spring. It was not the time nor the place for emotions. He flicked the wand’s light away and pulled the arm a tad higher into what could only be an awkward angle but the child was still frozen from self preservation so there was no whining to be had. The wand’s end was gently placed against the purple flesh.

“It’s fractured, so this is going to hurt.” Harry paused only long enough for his words to be processed.

“Episkey.” The soft utterance was followed by a sharp cry that was soaked up by the soft snow. Eyes squeezed shut at the telltale prickle of tears but Tom refused to let them fall. The pain slowly ebbed away and he hesitantly opened his damp eyes to look at the attentive gaze of the crouched man who was emanating comfort despite being the one to cause said pain. Tom still didn’t know what to think of him. Glancing at his elbow he found it to be a soft peach, just like the rest of him. Attempting to conceal his dumbfounded shock, he looked up at the gentle expression but the round glasses couldn’t hide the edge of wariness that flickered like a flame in his viridescent eyes. Doubt surfaced past Tom’s overall unease, he didn’t like how he was being looked at. Like a wild animal, a tamed snake. He’d been too preoccupied to really notice but on recollection it was there from the moment they’d locked eyes earlier that afternoon. Tom had been so swept away he’d lost his composure, he would amend that. He fought a cold shudder that threatened to run down his spine.

“Thank you.” The words were bland, polite. The childishness that had slipped through when leaving the orphanage, gone. Harry brightened at the words.

“You’re welcome.” The soft smile, while at first bewitching, no longer impacted Tom as much for he knew it to be hiding something which he ached to unravel. If only for his own curiosity. A clumsy hand found purchase on his shoulder and it took all his will to remain neutral to the sudden invasion of space. While originally comforting, now it simply felt like a burden. Harry looked as uncomfortable as Tom felt but he spoke through it, his other hand grasping the bundle at their feet.

“I’m going to apparate now, it’s a magical way of travelling. I need to touch you so you can apparate with me, okay?” A bit backwards to ask after going through with the action, Tom thought snidely.

“It’ll feel strange.” Was his final warning before he was dragged into the tightest tube imaginable, the pressure pushing him from all sides until Tom thought he’d implode. The hurtling stop and solid ground was a blessing and a curse for while the sensation ceased, bile was now jammed in his gullet. Swallowing heavily, he looked around at where they’d appeared, shivering softly all the while. A full moon was enough to make out a house before them, murky brown, red and white encompassed the overall picture and turned it into something mildly underwhelming. It wasn’t impressive by any means. A bay window, a garage and a chimney, although bathed in the shadows of twilight, all pointed to a typical 1930’s house. A light dusting of snow was sprinkled across a moss lawn that spanned the width of the front garden with bushes here and there and what seemed to be a large apple tree to the right side of the house (Cooking apples no doubt) which was penned in by a thick stone wall. A forest beyond that made the apple tree look a little less alone. Ivy climbed the left side of the house, as if protecting it from the harsh winter cold. The most noticeable thing however was the distinct lack of any other houses surrounding them, it felt nice to be away from the constant noise of London. A small squeeze on his shoulder mocked his inattentiveness and his stomach curled at the proximity but before he could pull away from the appendage it did so for him. He despised the lingering warmth it left behind.

The inside of the house was just as ordinary as the outside, the thin hallway and living room following through to a kitchen was caked with normalcy. It was incredibly bare and hardly looked lived in, Tom wondered why that was. Harry proceeded to show him to his room which had a colour palette of muted yellows and cream, he hoped that the garish decor was only temporary. It was a decent sized room with a simple double bed with a chestnut frame pushed into one corner and a wooden desk of the same colour against the opposite wall. A chestnut wardrobe was placed to the side of the doorframe and a large window overlooked the front lawn. While dark eyes surveyed the room, Harry dumped the wrapped moistened sheet of things onto the cream duvet with a simple plan to leave Tom to himself. However, A red-yoyo rolled through the loosely knotted sheet and danced a peculiar routine of twirls until falling still. It stood out against the bed like a sinner in heaven. Harry hesitantly picked up the yo-yo with a heavy sense of dread.

“Tom, did you steal this?” His gaze fell on the toy within Harry’s grasp and the world stood frighteningly still. A deafening tension filled the otherwise silent room. How did he know?

“So what if I did?” Harry’s face turned to stone and his eyes chilled Tom where he stood.

“Then you should know better.” His words were calm but his eyes were anything but.

“I only took it out of revenge!” Anger, strong and bitter, latched onto his tongue.

“You should learn that there is value in walking away from a situation," Harry said, his tone firm and his gaze firmer, "Retaliating makes you no better than the ones who hurt you.” The reprimand stung like a pinch to the heart, not due to the words because Tom knew he had a valid point but in the way he chose to lecture him like an unruly child who acted unreasonably with no justification. He didn't know anything about the bullying, he hadn't lived it—hadn't been hit, or berated, or shoved or told how no one would ever love him. Harry’s disappointment began to fade at the feeling of turbulent magic filling the room like a toxic gas. Tom’s hair covered any expression he could be making but Harry could guess given the circumstances. Shame creeped along his skin, he’d forgotten he was talking to a mere seven year old. Harry couldn’t allow himself to treat the child as a future dark lord because that’s all that he was at this moment in time, a child. Sighing softly, he kneeled beside his troublesome responsibility.

“Tom, look at me.” The imploring tone was something he couldn’t ignore. Looking upwards with no small amount of resentment twisting his face, he was prepared to defend himself but any fight Harry seemed to possess had vanished, leaving nothing but a tired man.

“I just want you to know that you don’t need to do this—not anymore. You have nothing to prove, no reason to feel insecure and no one you have to hurt.” Tom was nearly fooled into thinking he cared when presented with the same small smile and reassuring words. His lips twitched in disdain but the thick atmosphere of magic and tension dissipated all the same. The whispered thought of, but what if I want to hurt them, was left unsaid but his dark eyes spoke for him. Realising that his words had made little impact, Harry felt a bone deep weariness take hold. He'd hoped that he wasn’t wrong in his initial thought to take Tom as his ward in his attempt to do right by all those who’d fallen and those he had left behind but the optimism for a brighter future which he'd clung to was dwindling now that he was faced with the reality of being a guardian. He was tasked with teaching Tom right from wrong when he was already set in his own ways. He solemnly rose to his feet and discarded the yoyo onto the nightstand.

“There’s food in the fridge if you get hungry, I usually cook but, well..." Harry lingered in the doorway, not knowing what to say to the dark haired child who refused to look at him. With another deep exhale he swept from the room with a soft "Goodnight," and pulled the door closed with a gentle click. Tom waited until he could no longer hear the light footsteps before slowly walking to the bed. Gazing at the incriminating toy on his nightstand, he couldn’t stop the echo of annoyance. It was his, they all were. He found them, he earned them. The original owners didn’t deserve to have nice things.

Frustration fuelling his actions like a steam train, he grabbed the bundle of stolen possessions and petulantly threw it into the wardrobe (the consequent thud sudden and loud), lobbing the yoyo in a moment after. Huffing he laid back heavily onto his new bed but a flash of remembered pain caused him to clutch his elbow mid-fall. All he felt was the soft bounce of a decent mattress and the smell of new sheets. Lying very still, he suddenly recalled that he was now healed. He was unreasonably angry at the unnecessary reflex, even more so at the one who had healed him. One good deed didn’t make Harry a saint. Tom knew the wizard had reservations about him, despite them only having met that day and perhaps because of that, it felt like a betrayal. He had judged him based off of what others had said, Tom wasn’t given the courtesy of a first impression when the matron had made one for him. He knew now that he was only adopted because he was magical, not because Harry wanted him. He was unique is what he was and he should have been preening at the insinuation but it felt like hollow praise when reminded of the other alternative. Why did Tom even care? No one had ever wanted him before so the reminder shouldn't have given rise to a tidal wave of bitter feelings.

Rubbing his small hands into his eyes he breathed harshly at the familiar feeling of dampness on his lashes. He curled into himself, wanting to block out the world and all things in it. Bathed in the shine of moonlight, the child eventually fell asleep.


	4. Coming to Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Tom come to terms with their situations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there, it's certainly been a while hasn't it? Apologies for the wait (I'm sure you find my irregular updates as distasteful as I do) and I thank you all for your patience and words of appreciation, it never fails to make my day. As always, feedback is worshipped.

A muted thud startled Harry from his brooding, nearly spilling the half empty bottle of wine. A few droplets splattered themselves against his rolled up sleeve and the dining table as he caught it, appearing ominous against his white shirt and the light wood. He gazed up at the kitchen ceiling that was bathed in a soft yellow halo from the dim light bulb, unable to squash the sudden worry that Tom had either injured himself or was up to something. He wanted to think the best of him, he really did. He was only a child after all, but it seemed his mind attached the image of sleepless nights and waking terrors to the troubled boy like a spider's web. No matter how he might convince himself otherwise, like a shroud of netting, it refused to fully untangle to let the biased assumptions go.

A defeated sigh sailed past red stained lips as Harry shifted his grip on the neck of the wine bottle he'd found at the back of the liquor cabinet and brought it forth for another long glug. It was an issue he'd have to address, deal with and get over. Like all the others, it was no different but at this moment in time it seemed impossible to conquer. Not that getting plastered would reveal any answers but the sweet enticement of intoxication and a lack of worries was hard to refute. He let gravity guide the alcohol back to the table with a satisfying thump. Much like in tribute to the one from upstairs. The fuzzy thought was amusing and the vague solidarity bullied a wry edged smile across his flushed face, consequently he raised the bottle of wine in a foolish mock of companionship. 

He'd figure it out, he always did. He was resourceful when needed and a type of brave that boarded on suicidal, paired with his brand of dumb luck things usually worked out. Only, know he didn't have Hermione to help him research or Ron to help him plan. Sombre realisation curdled below his navel and the wine was no longer an escape but a prison of his darkest thoughts. He set the bottle back on the table roughly, shoving it away in a sudden display of disgust. What was he doing? The hysteric sentiment echoed like a caved scream at the base of his skull (despairing; rage filled; addled with grief) as it travelled to the forefront near his eyes, bringing forth a throbbing headache and the swell of tears that watered his vision of the bottle's faded label to illegibility. 

"What am I doing?" Harry whispered, head cradled in scarred hands and fingers digging into his scalp. A lone tear tumbled over, gliding unhurriedly to meet a wobbling mouth. He'd promised. He'd promised he'd fix it, fix everything. He hadn't expressed those words exactly but the sentiment was there, it was the most comfort he could offer when he'd decided to be the one to go after—and perhaps in spite of—their disagreements when he had brought it up months prior. He hadn't meant to do so behind their backs but they would have stopped him 'playing hero' as they would say and he'd refused to witness another burden taken on by one of his few remaining friends when he could prevent it. They deserved to have what little happiness they could obtain in that messed up world together, as a couple. So he'd left them, left them with nothing but a hastily written note and the hope that their reality would change. And what if it didn't? What if it couldn't? It would all be for nothing because this timeline would never have his Hermione, or his Ron, or his Neville or his Luna or his—

A soft rap swept the tides of despair to untouchable shores and his body reacted instinctively despite the alcohol. He stood and spun in a deadly pirouette, knocking the bottle of wine to the floor with a deafening smash. Drawing his wand like the weapon it had become he aimed it at his lifelong nemesis while magic danced across his skin, so very eager to be used. A curse perished on his tongue when he belatedly perceived that it was Tom (young Tom, child Tom, seven year old Tom) who had flinched back to cower behind the door frame—eyes wide with fear and small hands bunched into his worn wool slipover. The sight was pitiful and a swarm of guilt spread its icy tendrils, lining his stomach with frost and searing his throat shut. A roaring deafened his ears like the aftershocks of a bomb and nausea bloomed—inadvertently sickened by himself

This was his present now, his reality; it would be unfair to Tom to forget that. 

Harry observed the sleep ruffled child with a thundering heartbeat that was slow to calm. His hands were consequently clammy and his breathing was shaky and erratic from unused adrenaline. For Merlin's sake, was he that much of a loose bludger? That he'd strike at any sudden movement? He was worse than a feral Crookshanks. The thought was deprecating but humorous, yet despite being coupled with lighthearted impressions of brighter times it couldn't dispel the stubborn squeeze of self-loathing nor the accompanying bitter ache of longing that had heavied his heart. Another unbidden tear slipped down his face which he hurried to wipe away under the wary watch of Tom, nearly bumping his glasses off as he did so. Deep breaths, act normal.

"Tom, hi, did you need something?" he asked gently, trying his hardest to appear non threatening after his momentary bout of Being An Idiot. His wand buzzed within his marginally outstretched grip, prompting a hasty return to his damp spotted sleeve and a forced loosening of his shoulders now that the imagined threat had evaporated. Tom seemed to relax slightly in response and he shifted, less cowering and more unsure as he carefully stepped into the kitchen.

"I'm, I'm thirsty," he said in attempted nonchalance, the shadow of a frightened child in the face of accidental aggression portrayed as a faint happenstance. It solidified, perhaps more than anything, that he was but a child.

"Oh sure, sorry, I'll get that for you," he spoke in a rush, unaware that he'd apologised unnecessarily, as he stumbled (still slightly woozy from the surprisingly strong wine) towards the floating cabinet opposite the dining table. A jolt of pain encompassed his right foot at the same moment Tom made an aborted cry. A hiss escaped gritted teeth. Harry clutched his bare foot, (now damp with red wine and blood), violently bumping his hip into the table as he stole away from the shattered glass, his grey trousers catching against the rough wood. Tom had moved forwards, expression distraught and hands twitching helplessly at the bloody scene before Harry held up a palm. 

"I'm fine Tom, just… stay there, there's no point in you getting hurt too," he said haltingly, grasping the table tightly as he gently lowered his foot to the ground while he awkwardly fumbled to unsheathe his wand with his sight spinning like a muggle record player. A simple vanishing charm to the floor righted the grisly mess. After doing the same to his foot and then performing a wordless Episkey, it was as if it never happened. It would have appeared so, if not for the subdued horror papered across Tom's pale face and his own wild heartbeat.

"So, water," Harry said tentatively in a poor attempt at distraction, walking forth on his tender sole and obtaining a glass, this time, without injury (well done, points to Potter) "is there any other reason you're up at—" he ventured, glancing at the kitchen clock then did a double take.

1am. He'd been drunkenly ruminating at the dining table for five hours.

"No," came the defensive response. In contrast to his tone, he stood hovering just past the threshold with all the presence of a Demiguise. Turning off the tap, Harry came forward to place the cup where he'd been seated before lowering himself opposite—a peace offering. The twinge of pain centered at his hip was unimportant. Tom hesitated but succumbed to the lure, seating himself on the very edge—as if to bolt at any second—and drank from the glass greedily, momentarily uncaring about having an audience. Harry couldn't help his scrutinising. Despite the conscious attempt at separation, knowing who it was who sat before him, no matter the age, was a skin crawling type of strange. Tom peeked up at him for a fleeting moment and that's when Harry noticed the red rimmed eyes and faint tear tracks. Unexpectedly, a soft sense of empathy rose like an ocean crest; he couldn't imagine that he looked any better.

"Do you like your room?" It was a cloddish attempt but he was trying. Finishing his water Tom scoffed, the fear now absent or at least concealed.

"It's fine, better than the orphanage," he mumbled vaguely, hands clasped around the empty glass and gaze discreetly wandering the room. Probably seeking a means to escape his loopy companion; Harry's lips thinned, disheartened at the thought.

"Good, I guess," he replied, an atmosphere of words unsaid stifling the meagre small talk. Tom fiddled with the glass nervously, noticed he was doing so and pushed it away with an annoyed frown. Harry couldn’t help but mirror the expression. It rubbed Harry wrong to see Tom so ill-at-ease. He hadn't expected to not only witness the blatant tells and ticks of feelings but read them like lines from a well loved play. Again, he had to remind himself, this was a young boy. Not some mastermind, not an emotionless dictator, not a murderer that couldn’t fathom love—at least, not yet. And that was Harry’s purpose wasn’t it? To stop that, but the question remained as to how. Well, being brutally honest was surely a start, right? He'd certainly been so when he clumsily addressed Tom's thieving tendencies and that hadn't ended too terribly. The thought was painfully optimistic and was more suited to a Ron pep talk. The reminder brought forth another soul churning ache as he watched Tom’s movements (alive, movements made him alive unlike—) with a worrying dependency likened to a parched man grasping at morning dew. 

More than anything, Harry was just relieved that he wasn’t alone.

"Look," Harry broke the tender silence that had settled like London smog, capturing Tom's critical attention which was strangely intense. His eyes were a sharp sheen of steel blue. Not the unnerving crimson (alight with malice, hate and triumph) that he'd come to unwillingly know. Harry very nearly quailed, the sudden comparison effectively jarring, but somehow persisted like only a Griffindor could. "I'm not going to be the best guardian, I'll try—that's the least I can do—but… I'm going to make mistakes. I'll mess up, and I'd prefer if you told me when I did because I can be a bit clueless sometimes." Downturning his gaze, he confessed to the table, "I don't know what I'm doing."

Tom could only stare, and stare and stare. This adult and apparent wizard, who could probably make him disappear with a thought, was asking his opinion. On what he wasn't sure, but it didn't change that he was asking Tom: a child. It was so against all he'd come to know—of adults and their behavior—that it felt as wrong as chalk on stone. A soft scrawp entered his ears before he realised it was his fingernails scratching the wood in another wordless show of nerves. Clenching his fists tightly enough to make the bones ache, he attempted to respond without really understanding the statement.

"Well, some clothes would be nice."

Silence. Then an undignified sound escaped the green eyed man (Harry, Tom reminded himself sourly) before it was quickly aborted. He'd muffled the sound behind a pale hand and from the short distance Tom could see what looked like writing upon the flesh but that failed to matter when he realised with mounting horror that he'd been laughed at.

"I couldn't think of a better reason to go Christmas shopping, it is the season after all," he said with a sudden easy smile, the mirth shining in his eyes highlighted by the slight glare of his ridiculous glasses. The image was strange, not a bad strange but different nonetheless and Tom might have brushed the thought aside if it didn't appear with a sudden clarity. It was strange because Harry didn't really smile, not truly and none so far that illuminated his face so brightly.

"C'mon, off to bed. I want you up bright and early—we've got a lot to do tomorrow." Still smiling and with a decisive double palmed pat on the table, he picked up the empty glass and went to rinse it in the sink. Tom didn't need much convincing (he was still mortified that he'd said something unintentionally amusing) and stood from the chair with a palpable eagerness that had no hope of being subtle. Yet with one foot into the living room he paused, looking back at the man who was now his supposed guardian until adulthood. It was an uncomfortable reality to ponder. He hadn't fully comprehended his situation—it didn't feel real. Tom didn't doubt that he'd be dragged back to the orphanage if he did anything to anger Harry (or worse; the end of a stick and a freezing green glare stuck to his mind like treacle). However, he was grateful that he no longer had to live in that understaffed and overworked building overcrowded with imbecilic children while draughty windows, threadbare blankets and never enough food remained a constant companion. Tom was indeed grateful for the respite and for that reason and that reason only did he attempt civility beyond questions asked of him.

He was also a bit curious.

"Are you not sleeping?" He mused aloud, his voice not quite strong enough to be heard over the running water (couldn't he just magic it clean?). Harry looked back, obviously surprised to see that Tom hadn't disappeared yet and turned the tap off, setting the glass on the metal drying rack.

"Sorry, what was that?" He asked warmly, absentmindedly grabbing a faded tea towel from the oven handle. His eyes sparkled with a soft fondness that Tom was uncomfortable being the recipient of.

"I said, are you not sleeping as well?" Tom repeated, uneasy frustration curling his words into something sharp. 

Harry’s bright expression faded like an eclipse.

Water dripped steadily onto the tiled floor, each gentle splatter a shout in the still house.

"Er no, not yet—too much on my mind," he said stiffly, a strained smile tacked on the end to soften the rebuttal (it was obvious to Tom now just how strained it was) as he turned to the sink like a cut marionette, somehow bumping the drying rack with an elbow. A muffled curse followed as he leaned over the sink in obvious discomfort and proceeded to tap his left foot to the floor in an off rhythm. If Tom were more sympathetic he would have discreetly left the kitchen and went back to bed.

But he was simply too curious.

"Why did you point your wand at me?" Harry stilled, appearing statuesque when a long moment dragged its heavy weight across the kitchen floor. Tom wasn't deterred and pursued the apparent impermissible topic with a sly eagerness. 

"Did you think I was someone else?" The same brand of silence greeted the inquisition like the sturdiest of walls.

"Who?"

"Go to bed Tom." Harry intoned frostily, his icy disposition unwavering and Tom knew he'd lost whatever foothold he'd possessed. No matter, there was always tomorrow.

Harry was trembling as he heard the soft footsteps leave the room. There was a break of nothing but his own harsh breathing. Then the creaking of the stairs sounded, signalling his ward's departure for the night. He held the edge of the countertop in a death grip, while another hand rose to press against his face. He breathed deeply, enough to fog his glasses against the barricade of his palm that remained the only obstacle to the world. That world being Tom. Of course, instead of fearing his regretful reaction Tom instead sought to unravel every reason as to why it occurred. He didn't care for boundaries—preferring to push and prod until cracks occurred all because it was amusing; the imagery knotted his stomach with deep distaste. A severely troubled child indeed. Better yet, he didn't know how to clean and bind the infested wounds inflicted by a bullied childhood nor soothe the ever-present bitterness of being an unwanted child. Tom had never had a childhood friend—no one to trust or connect with and Harry hoped it wasn't too late to kindle an echo of something similar between them; it was a dying wish.

Harry exhaled heavily, his legs suddenly unwilling to hold him and all of his burdens any longer while his hip ached punishingly. He should go to bed as well, even if he was guaranteed to lay awake until dawn—eyes sore and body unrested. At least it would provide undisturbed time to think, a task he'd been resolutely avoiding since he'd arrived in this time of approaching World Wars and economic depression. He dragged himself away from the kitchen sink, mind overtaxed and soul weary, and sought the light switch. With the brief thought that tomorrow ought to bring a brighter day, the house was immersed in an encompassing darkness.


End file.
